


From Dark Caverns

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers not knowing how to handle Maedhros's Issues, Cousin Incest, Flashbacks, Generalized Maedhros Warnings, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Healing is a long process. But everything truly important was settled long ago, as far as Findekáno is concerned.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	From Dark Caverns

Macalaurë paused, quill in hand. He had the fairest penmanship of all of them, which was half the reason he had been asked to fulfill this task. The other half was that he was the only brother whose presence could be endured right now. "How, exactly, do you wish to spell that, my dear brother?"

"Maedhros," he announced, stressing the thorn, as he leaned back against the pillows the healers insisted on propping him up with, as though he were unable to bear the touch of such a simple thing as a mattress against his back. The thought made him laugh sometimes, but he stopped when he saw the looks they gave each other at the sound. Perhaps his father had not heard his own fey laughter at the end, either. "Here, give me the pen."

"Ah...perhaps..."

"Give me the damned pen, do I have a left hand or not?" he snapped, and snatched it away when his brother would still hold it prisoner. He dipped it into the well, then set it to the page, lining the letters just so. His penmanship was worse than even Turcafinwë's, but his father's Tengwar was legible, though hardly the beautiful script that his right hand's had been. "Like this."

"Mm." Macalaurë cast him a look askance, but knew better than to say anything too cutting. "I, High King Maedhros--that sounds odd, and they're going to hate it--of the Noldorim, Third of Finwë's line, son and heir of High King Curufinwë Fëanaro, hereby renounce my claim to kingship in Middle-Earth, in deference to the eldest of the House of Finwë, my uncle Fingolfin and all his heirs, until--"

Maedhros choked, and his eyes bulged. "My uncle _who?_ "

"That is the name he has chosen in this realm," his brother said, mouth twitching. "King Thingol's scribes have accepted it into the annals."

Maedhros set his pen down, and waved his hand carelessly. "I would have words to say about the Hidden King's penchant for strange spellings, and I think you know them quite well. It is for his sake that we make this performance of changing ourselves, is it not?"

"In the books. I doubt anything can change us in the hearts of those we've fought."

"Good. Let them fear us. And I say, while I may still make decrees, that we should be glad of it. Let us make ourselves anew, in a new country, even if our old vows still hold us." Maedhros's mood was turning black, and he cast around the tent, lips pursed together. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Ah, you mean our cousin..." Macalaurë squinted at the page, pretending the name difficult for him to work out. "Fingon?"

Maedhros made a face. "If you must. Fetch him."

"If you are not the King, I hardly have to--"

"The council has not been convened yet, and King or no, I'm your elder brother. Fetch him for me."

Macalaurë sounded something that sounded like " _cranky_ ," and stood, giving him an overly obsequious bow. "Your _Majesty_."

"Don't!"

The word came out far harsher than he had intended. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, rapid-fire. His vision clouded, hearing not his brother's lilting tones, but Mairon's sing-song voice, mockingly giving him tribute. The tent walls closed in around him, everything darkening, and then he could feel the claws sinking into his skin, prying his mouth open, crushing and branding and twisting and rending. He was back in Angband, fully, and smelled the brimstone and poison vapors, and the sickly-sweet scent of Mairon's arms wrapping around him. "Your Majesty," Mairon whispered, as his fingernails grew long, sinking into Maedhros's skin, lovingly puncturing his lungs. "High King Nelyafinwë. Finally, we are alone again, and I may take my time with you properly."

He couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't breathe, he was trapped and chained and broken, and Morgoth was coming, and they were ripping him apart--

"Kurvo! Help!"

"Not again, damn the stars and the Enemy all together--"

"He can't hear me, I've been trying to call him--"

"Nelyo-- _Nelyo_! What did you say to him?"

"Nothing, nothing of note, I was just leaving and then he started doing this!"

"Nelyo, can you hear me? Russandol--ah!"

There was a loud crashing sound. Perhaps it was the machines, Mairon loved his machines, he'd seen one of them turn a tall, strong elf into something that could fit inside a bucket, he liked to put Maedhros on one of them and see how long he could stand it before he was screaming--

"Get up! Then get Findekáno. I'll hold him down."

Mairon put a warg into his cell, and promised him he could have a bath if he defeated it. It had ripped all the skin of his legs to ribbons, and someone was holding his wrists, and hadn't they already crushed his hands?

"We can handle this ourselves, we don't need _him_ , usurping bastard. He's _our_ brother."

Then Morgoth was there, claiming his prize, and Mairon was looking at him with jealousy as he screamed, whispering how lucky he was that _this_ was how he would die, his face changing to utter delight when his accursed soul refused to flee.

"Just get him, Moryo, he's making Tyelpë nervous."

"He's making _me_ fucking nervous, _ow_."

Maedhros heard himself whimpering, as if from far away, and now he was on Mairon's lap, with the creature's long-fingered hands in his hair, saying that if he played the wanton sweetly enough, perhaps he could have a draught of something that would let him sleep, and perhaps he would not be awakened by more new brands, new piercings, because he was running out of room to create his masterpiece.

"Make him stop making that sound!"

"You're both fools, I'm getting Findekáno."

"Hold him! Stars above, he's still so blasted _strong_ \--"

He had to fight. If he didn't, they would know him broken, and then it would be the rock, and the void, and the madness of his own thoughts, and he could not go back, he could not, so he _had_ to fight.

"Shouldn't be this hard to pin a fucking starved cripple down--"

"Sit on him if you have to, he's going to set the tent on fire and kill us all!"

"What's going _on_ in here? Who's screaming?"

"It's Russo again."

"What's wrong with him, Atar?"

"He's insane, that's what's wrong with--"

A wet grunt. The sound of a body hitting the floor. An elf he'd killed? There were so many. _Whatever you do to him, I will not do to you for one week._ Mairon always broke his promises, easier than Maedhros broke those slender necks. Never trust. Mairon liked hurting him too much, could not resist it.

"Get off of him! Now!"

"Listen, you little upstart--"

A gasp.

"I said, get off him! Stand aside!"

"Just do it, Turko, let _him_ get beaten to death by the mad king."

"Fine. But draw your sword on me again, and I'll have your head, _cousin_."

"Touch him again and I'll have yours!"

This had to be one of the dreams, because Findekáno was there, but he hadn't heard that voice in so long.

"Maitrus. Can you hear me? I'm here."

Nothing holding him down.

Nothing hurting him.

"It's just you and me, now. You're safe, you're at Lake Mithrim, remember? I know, I know it feels real, but it's _not_ happening again, I promise. You're free."

Free?

"Free. I came for you, remember? Remember the Eagle?"

Eagle. There had been an Eagle. Findekáno had cried out to Manwë, had always been his favorite, and of _course_ an Eagle had come.

"Do you remember the song? I'm going to sing it again, all right?"

The song. Yes, he'd heard a song, but it could not have been real, all the good things were imaginary, so there could not have been a song, Findekáno the Valiant was back in Aman, or dead in the grinding ice, most precious, most beloved, Mairon loved to tell him that everyone he loved was dead.

And Findekáno sang.

Slowly, Maedhros's vision cleared.

By the third verse, he heard the pounding of his own heart, and quelled it, blinking slowly, staring around at the tent. Findekáno was next to his bed, looking quite calm but for a small furrow in his brow, and his sword lay naked across his lap.

He caught his breath, and his eyes focused. Time started moving in the right direction again. Everything inside of him felt raw, and the old wounds still ached, but he was _here, now_. "Finno," he breathed, and closed his eyes.

"I'm here."

"Touch me."

Findekáno rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Like this?"

"Aye, like that." He knew who he was. He knew where he was. He forced mastery over his emotions, until he knew himself to be truly under control, his breathing steady. Then he opened his eyes, and looked around.

The tent was a wreck. Everything near the desk had been knocked over, the papers ruined by spilled ink and rough treatment, the candles guttered or knocked over and out, all the pillows tossed and sagging on the tent floor. One of the thick tent posts had been snapped, as if it were no more sturdy than a twig. The stump where his hand had been stung with pain, as if he'd re-broken one of the shattered bones that had only just begun stitching together. Maedhros swallowed. "Did I..."

"Who cares?" Findekáno bent, and kissed his brow. "Let me just put it to rights, so you don't have to look at it."

He sheathed his sword, then moved smoothly, watching Maedhros for any sign that he was coming un-anchored again, setting pillows and candles to rights. "Do you want them lit?"

"No." Sometimes the moon was too much. The sun was always too much.

"Then we'll leave them out," Findekáno said, as if it were his own very good idea. He bent, picking up the parchment Macalaurë had been writing, and squinted at it in the darkness. "Maedhros? That's how you're naming yourself?"

For the first time, Maedhros felt a qualm of unease about the choice. Ought it have remained secret? Perhaps Findekáno did not want to share the private name. Perhaps he did not want to use it at all. There had been little time for private conversation since the flight from Thangorodrim, as addled as his mind had been, as broken as his body had been. The healers had worked for him day and night for weeks, trying to repair what damage they could, often having to re-break his bones to set them properly, and it had been weeks since Findekáno had left his side for more than moments, but that didn't mean they'd had time to speak. And after he'd regained most of his consciousness, none of his brothers let him have a moment's peace, and Findekáno had been called back to his father's camp.

"Is it..." Maedhros swallowed, and looked away. "If you mislike it, I will be otherwise."

"Mislike it? I gave it to you, did I not?" Findekáno smiled at him like clouds clearing from a stormy sky into clear blue, and took his seat once more. "May I touch your hand?"

"You've never asked before." Findekáno, afraid to touch him. But of course he was, after that _performance_ he'd just put on. Shame washed through him--who had he struck? The last time it had come on him so strongly, he'd taken a Healer's head between his hand and his stump and said a prayer commending her to Mandos' Halls, about to snap her neck, before Moryo had pulled him off. The Healers refused to be alone with him after that.

Findekáno took his hand firmly between both of his, and gave him a direct silver stare. "I don't trust you to tell me if it hurts," he said bluntly. "Because you are stubborn, and you lie to me."

Maedhros snorted against his better judgment. "Aye, I cannot say I do not."

"If you did, it would be another lie." Findekáno sounded entirely unbothered by this fact, and bent to kiss him, chastely enough. His eyes danced, thumb rubbing slowly over Maedhros's palm. "To hear everyone calling you so would give me great pleasure. More than I have already for seeing you here, and healing."

Maedhros swallowed hard. "I thought," he said slowly, his voice giving out on him as it did sometimes now, as if he'd spent the last few days screaming, "you might..."

He trailed off, and shook his head. "I do not know. I cannot put it into words."

"Then you need not," Findekáno said, as if that was an end to it. "What you thought may have come to pass cannot be so important, if you cannot say it to me, and it did not come to pass. I am alive, Mait--Maedhros. You are alive. And I think..." His lips twitched. "If I remember correctly, you are about to make my father very happy, and your brothers very angry."

"Nothing will ever make them happy," Maedhros said with a sigh. The scene felt truly faded now, even if he felt raw inside, and his deepest wounds still ached. "Trying to please six such men would only make me as insane as they name me. I do not think that what the Noldor need now is a mad king."

"You are _not_ mad."

"My mind is not well." He spoke quietly, but firmly. "It may be in time, but...I do not know."

"Is that why?" Findekáno asked, sounding no more than curious. "Why you told him what you did?"

The day before, Ñolofinwë had come to visit him, urged by his eldest son. The conversation had been civil, but Maedhros had been blunt. When the council was convened, leadership would pass, out of gratitude, in friendship, and to repair the strife between them.

His uncle had gone to clasp his hand, turned pale, then switched hands immediately. It was nearly funny.

"You told him it was to repair the rift between our clans."

"Aye. Of course it is."

"And?"

"And it is gratitude for the great deed that you did, unasked for and unlooked for."

"And?"

"And, the great host of the exiled Noldor do not need a mad king."

"And?"

 _And I hate hearing the phrase 'Your Majesty,'_ Maedhros did not say, and instead, he reached up his hand and tugged a gold-laced braid. "Perhaps I am giving him a crown for your bride price, my troublesome cousin."

"My--" Findekáno turned pink, squeaked, and hit him with a pillow out of reflex, before gasping and saying, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, are you hurt? Are you--"

Maedhros was laughing. It felt good, cleansing, even if little was healed, yet, and the mis-aligned bones in his ribs jabbed into his lungs. "I am not so fragile as to be brought down by a pillow, _ĕrĕmelda,_ even wielded by your fearsome skill."

Findekáno leaned down, and kissed him again. He kept them quick and firm, and Maedhros knew them for careful affirmations, without demand, and loved him more for them. "Would you like some information?" he asked, eyes dancing.

"Yes." Maedhros smiled, even if the motion still felt strange, with a scar splitting his lips on one side. The Healers promised it would go away in time. They also promised that his collarbone would stop sticking up like that, and the brands would be less visible, and his knee would stop grinding, and the skin of his feet would smooth over, and his eye would stop going out of focus, and he would stop feeling that sharp pain whenever he inhaled, and the thick scars on his belly would narrow. He wasn't sure how much of it he believed. At least they had never told him his hand would grow back. Then he would have known them for liars. "I want any words from your lips at all."

"I told my father about us."

Maedhros had _not_ expected that, and his gaze sharpened. "When?"

"Back in Aman. So I think he's had long enough to get used to the idea." Findekáno sat on the edge of his bed, making room for himself as though they were back in his bedroom at Tirion, speaking quietly under the covers so they would not be overheard. "So. What say you?"

"What...say I?" Maedhros asked, uncertain. "To what?"

"You're quite right," Findekáno declared, and pulled out his own broken chain with the silver and golden rings still threaded through. "There is nothing to ask. It was all settled long ago, was it not?"

Guilt stabbed. Maedhros looked up, hesitant, and said, "I know I told you I would take the path of my grandmother, and you would be released, but--"

Findekáno's fingers went abruptly against his mouth, stopping him from speaking. "No more of that," he said sternly. "No more of _any_ of it, _arimelda_. No more of your promises of leaving me, no more of your protestations at what's changed, no more insisting that a High King's heir should have heirs, I want to hear none of it, and will listen to less. We are married, in the sight of the Valar and the One, who all things created. If you...if you can take no more joy in my presence, we can live apart, for a time. But we will always be wed. You told me the night you asked me that you would have no other. Neither will I, even if you took the path of Miriel."

"But, my Oath--"

"The Enemy has the jewels, does he not?" Findekáno asked, undeterred. "My father's host, aye, and myself as well--we came across the Grinding Ice to do him damage, and strike him from his dark cavern. You will be with us when we do, and surely, neither myself or any of my father's kinsmen would deny you what is yours, crafted by your father's hand alone. So...live," he urged, and stretched out, molding his body to Maedhros's, resting an arm gently over his midsection, taking care not to press down anywhere. "Live, and fight, and be the fierce warrior you are. I want you no different."

Maedhros felt himself trembling. Findekáno could not have laid him open more bare if he had had all the tools in Mairon's beloved black case. "I am...not who I was, when we wed."

"Oh, good. I would be far too old for that young prince to marry now."

"Finno--"

Findekáno kissed him, and this was no brief peck, but a slow, firm meeting of their mouths, still chaste, but intent. "I do not love you for your scars," he said, looking into Maedhros's eyes, cupping his face. "I do not love you for the terror you bear. I do not love you for what you have suffered. But I do love you."

And for the first time since he'd heard Findekáno's song in his long torment, Maedhros wept.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I lied, I didn't want to go out of town before posting this, so please have some gentle healing boys as I pretend I'm going to leave on time.


End file.
